


Don´t know how to love you more

by Shelk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Drug Use, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Poetry, Politics, Romance, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shelk/pseuds/Shelk





	Don´t know how to love you more

**This was written in one go, during a mental breakdown.**

**Pairing:**

Sherlock/Sherlock`s all mighty brain;

Moriarty/Sherlock`s brain;

Sherlock/drugs;

On this; I may add a personal note. Sherlock Holmes is not a beautiful disaster.This is not a happy love story. This love is is not as pleasant as the myth says.  
He is a user; we are talking opiums, heroine, nicotine, painkillers, acids, adrinaline and endorfines, sex in particular but above that the "rush of clearity" are things he enjoys experiencing.

Sherlock/Sherlock`s work ;

Sherlock/John.

Mycroft/Sherlock

Irene/Sherlock

 

 

 

Many have assumed otherwise, but Sherlock Holmes knew perfectly well that he was falling in love with John Watson.

He accepted the fact, prioritizing his work as usual.

He was married with it, after all. He truly loved the concept of a marriage, and a home, and honey pancakes in the morning.

He was just, not, very well suited for it.

He knew as well that, his dear brother lost that concept at a very young age, since then enjoying rubbing that into Sherlock's soul.

Or he used every opportunity, trying.

Once it hurt.

Then, everything turned into a game.

It was their sad reality, their safety net.

They loved each other through.

In a way two monsters enjoy playing around.

They however, did not expect John Watson in their lives.

A new connection, tugging inside of Sherlock, growing it`s poisonous roots through him.

Mycroft knew. He always knows.

There is an unwritten rule in politics.

Knowledge is everything.

It is a paradox.

Mycroft was a big, proud, sensitive paradox.

But he knew; everything.

Sherlock knew too, but the boy hoped he was wrong.

They both understood that "project John Watson" would never end well.

They both knew "John Watson" would hurt.

Hurt tremendously.

Sherlock saw that smile, gentle light in Mycroft`s eyes, offering to kill John.

He kindly declined.

 

 

Sherlock never really needed a flat mate to begin with; his reasons for asking universe for one were wage and illogical.

He was probably bored.

Mrs. and Mr. Holmes had two sons they were very proud of, whom they left everything they owned before leaving the country in a hurry.

So there they were, Mycroft age 14 and Sherlock age 9, standing on the terrace of a castle watching the Queen drink her tea, a nameless girl by her side explaining why the country couldn't afford to offer them any other guardian.

Apparently their parents were supplying British underground army for decades.

And basically; the chances of their return were very slim.

The boys adapted.

Sherlock was 13, reading on the couch, when he was kidnapped for the first time.

The kidnapper was one of the drug lords, ego busted addict with a smaller army on his hands.

Later that day Sherlock was surprised by the rage, his older brother radiated.

His mind wondering if it was the vase Mycroft adored smashed to pieces or the amount of drugs stuffed into Sherlock`s system.

23 gram of cocaine, a plant dried and cooked, mixed with fine powder, a mixture of sand and salts. Not the finest quality, probably some crushed concrete in there, instead.

Sherlock barely remembered that month.

Later, he was told, the doctor who managed to save him was quite full of himself.

None of his inner organs were removed and all of his limbs remained intact.

He could move again within next half the year.

With each movement, the craving addiction overflowing his essence.

The Queen was upset.

Sherlock was brilliant, his tutors amazed by the memory and skill of the child.

Sherlock was equally bored, useless degrees lying in a box, somewhere in the closet.

Mycroft did everything he could.

Consisted visits, every afternoon around eight and a tasteful little box always supplied, beside a piece of Lemon cake, the guilty pleasure both men shared since their mother showed them Holmes`s secret recipe.

Sherlock baking skills was another secret they kept to themselves.

Busy with work and research, brothers enjoyed a few hours in silence.

Somehow, Sherlock never really got involved with managing the work, apart from basics.

Considering some of the looks Mycroft gave him, it was his wish.

Sherlock being Mycroft's beloved, little brother.

 

 

Sherlock never really got involved with people, either.

There were many reasons, he would rather not discuss, but none of them was a secret.

Knowing his reasons was mostly the question of perspective.

Some people knew, other were clueless.

Mycroft knew, of course.

The girl assistant at the lab knew; her own bruises still colorful under the lab coat.

Sherlock never mentioned them out loud, putting the first pebble into their friendship.

Their relationship wasn`t perfect...

The girl, hurting, her mind wondering.

Later Sherlock realized, her name was the problem.

Of course he remembered it.

And he was, sorry, since then; addressing the girl with her given name.

Molly wasn`t one of the nameless girls, he learned.

 

 

The few of Sherlock`s relationships always turned out weird.

The one with his brother was a mess.

Molly`s was an awkward, silent one.

His clients rarely knew he existed, the boy observing them from a far.

His enemies never really reached the moment where they could laugh together.

Police were ignorant, ignoring him.

His parents were dead alike.

His relationship with drugs was the most stable. Safe. Pure. His mind craving for the treat.

It was wrong, of course.

He knew what drugs did and knew of results they would bring.

He was just a kid; he lied to himself, throwing out another needle.

The world, finally, silent…

 

 

Sherlock grew up.

His arms and legs grew longer.

He made a name for himself, too.

Black market couldn`t simply ignore a "hero of justice", commonly found sitting on one of the couches in their own drug house.

The boy was always sickly pale, with long dark curly hair, fully dressed on warmest summer days.

He was a good customer, paying good and keeping clean.

He never spoke, or touched anyone.

Watching people, with a pair of eyes whores spoke about to each other.

The bright blue gaze; lucid through amounts of drugs enough to twist half the street in an orgy.

The pretty boy wasn`t interested, they assumed.

 

 

Sherlock hated pets and women.

Both disliked him, in return.

At first, they were in love, especially cats.

Their passionate crave for his attention, his touch.

They were so needy…

The man grew bored within hours.

Mycroft laughing as yet another woman marched through their garden, nude.

Sherlock had a thing, for outdoors.

Something about sunlight, and grass between his toes.

A bitter cup of tea with a piece of lemon was a tradition.

Sherlock yearning for a coffee; feeling like a naughty child.

Mycroft knew, of course.

But it was always his, Egyptian sheets; the boy was wrapped in, equally nude as his infuriated mistress.

Mycroft`s lovely sheets, all wet and greenish.

Mycroft had a thing for clean bed wear with a slight sense of jasmine.

Somehow the man always allowed Sherlock into his bed,right after.

Allowing Sherlock to destroy another set of clean sheets, letting him fall asleep, the nakedness of ivory skin of his shoulders keeping Mycroft awake till morning.

 

 

Every time Sherlock though of the word, his deeply scientific soul was over flown with emotion.

A word he stumbled across every time he passed by a letter T.

T. Tenderness.

Sherlock needed tenderness.

Something Mycroft, couldn´t buy for him.

Something Molly never had.

Something John radiated.

He needed John.

 

 

First time Sherlock had sex with a man, Mycroft was watching them.

Everything planned by bizarre plotting, one brother winning over another.

Mycroft enjoyed himself.

Sherlock`s compensation was his first dose of liquid nicotine.

Sherlock was sixteen.

 

 

Sherlock fascinated people.

All kind of people… Rich noblemen as well as homeless students, men and women...

Sherlock was a favorite.

Many doors and beds opened for a beautiful teenager, ability Mycroft used for his own advantage.

Sherlock and Mycroft had a deal, once an ambitious idea, turning into a powerful tool.

An idea, their father used to joke about.

The world lying,helpless at their feet.

Mycroft chose to rule it.

Sherlock chose to become an untouchable.

The boy proclaimed dead at the age of nineteen, his identity erased.

Something they celebrated with a Lemon pie.

 

 

The realization that he needed a substitute drug for cocaine came when Sherlock`s addiction started affecting his work.

His hands too cold, failing to dissect a standard single eye.

Operation turning too slimy for Sherlock`s taste.

That insight was hurtful.

Sherlock destroying another set of Mycroft`s sheets by climbing into the bed, his hands still dirty.

Sometimes, Mycroft felt a warm note of affection, watching the smartest man alive laying helpless and asleep, pretty limbs spread across the mattress.

His brother was impossible.

But somehow, the arrangement suited them.

They never thought of getting a second bed for Sherlock, either.

The boy refused sleeping, since the youngest of age, nesting in a lather armchair placed strategically in-between kitchen and the lab.

Loosening the tie and climbing into the bed beside Sherlock, Mycroft promised to take care of anything and everything, tomorrow.

Hating the thin worry lines, almost invisible under Sherlock`s thick eyelashes.

Falling asleep, he smiled.

Feeling as Sherlock turned over, wide awake as always.

The boy clenching to him, soft broken breaths mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

Breathing in the slight sense of jasmine, long wavy lock the color of dark chocolate spread on his pillow, Mycroft felt weak, acceptably weak.

The meaning of Sherlock`s happiness in his, personal inner world, was nothing they needed to discuss.

Very few things were more obvious.

Letting Sherlock sleep off the melancholy was the only acceptable of many unacceptable things Mycroft could do, anyway.

Wishing some rest for both of them.

 

Some people bring out the best in each other.

John Watson could bring out the expressive, laughing arrogance in Sherlock Holmes.

And something else, something Sherlock liked disliking.

Another big T.

Trust.

Sherlock trusted John, from the second he saw him. He felt he could.

A habit Mycroft hated in his brother.

Mycroft hated many habits Sherlock had.

Like slipping into his office and waiting.

His invisible little brother…

Money wasted on surveillance, all for nothing.

Sherlock never came, for a chat.

Once he was there, tending a diseased human brain, claiming to have found a cure.A contagious, deadly, infected piece of meat, Sherlock nursed.

The only child in history who agitated forward world piece thanks to petrifying horror.

At the end of the day British governments send a boat with vaccine to Indonesia, fulfilling their part of the contract. Sherlock Holmes used the antidote and wrote a paper about artificial extraction of disease from proteins.

It was a happy ending.

This time, Sherlock was smoking.

Mycroft signed, moving to close the door behind him.

A nameless girl glancing up in silence, her perfect olive colored hand sliding down the back of Mycroft walking companion, leading the elderly man away.

This time Sherlock was whispering, words filled with panic, violent context, fears.

Mycroft understood; walking forward the only blind spot in the room, his brother leaning against the wall, the man freezing to the touch.

Drugs were not the reason.

Drugs calmed Sherlock down.

People never did.

Mycroft was gentle.

Pale exposed neck, tasting like sunlight, trembling shoulders, tears.

Mycroft really hated John Watson, from the second he heard about him.

 

 

The news of their mother`s death, came in a letter.

The woman was in pain and struggle.

Her killer, undiscovered.

Violet Holmes, Sherrinford by the birth, was a mesmerizing noble girl, a petite creature with wide grey eyes and the bone structure of a doll.

Sherlock looked just like her.

Their father was a Norwegian born soldier, calling himself Steven.

Steven or Siger, had a tough life, his manners rude and his face in scars, moving on from actual fighting into the selling under Violets supervision.

They were a good family, loving one.

After the news, boys were silent.

Not quite upset, but silent.

For a year and four weeks; on a Wednesday morning, around 8 AM Mycroft bounced his teaspoon of the table.

Sherlock frowning.

Taking their revenge was a matter of buying plane tickets.

Finding the man responsible, took a little bit more scheming.

And, time.

Sherlock got himself a pair of nasty sunburns on the trip, disliking India since then.

 

Awkwardness was the high note in their relationship.

John never noticed, of course.

John never understood the difference between stuff that matters and the rest.

John couldn`t see small details or the half looks.

John couldn`t understand them.

He could feel them.

The man was adorable.

His angst was adorable too.

Such issues were all, too easy to crack.

His psychologist the one he returned from, sulking, his cloths smelling of artificial kindness.

His psychologist mistook the man's boredom for a depression.

Social norms holding such passion back.

And Sherlock…

A smoking rabbit; waiting for Alice to jump through the hole.

Sherlock knew everything about boredom.

 

 

Mycroft was watching Sherlock.

He was restless.

He felt restless.

Sherlock was naked.

Again.

The boy was reading.

A human cocoon with one slender leg stretched out on the couch.

Wrapped in Mycroft`s poor, tormented sheets, again.

The book was mathematical; the fragile simplicity of the mind.

Mycroft was tired; he was exhausted and he was irritated with Sherlock.

For Goddess` sake; Sherlock had cloths.

Sherlock had a lot`s of cloths.

Sherlock knew he had cloths.

Sherlock had his own rooms, too.

He had his lab, and the kitchen, not to forget the mess he made of their living room and terrace.

Sherlock was not a child anymore.

Mycroft wasn`t secretive with his affections either.

Most certainly, Sherlock knew.

Sherlock knew of his liking's.

He had to.

Dropping his jacked on the bed, Mycroft leaned forward, letting his fingers rest on the the dark locks of his brother, tugging gently.

Sherlock froze, a questioning small sound, slipping from this throat.

Mycroft tensed, bravery tingling at his guts.

Without a warning the book dropped, calm blue gaze watching as Mycroft turned pink, his cheeks burning.

Their first kiss was surprising.

Sherlock`s invisible smile as Mycroft gasped.

His breathing hitched. Sherlock`s lips on his, locks slipping away from his gasp.

Sherlock himself, escaping.

Mycroft left breathless in his solitude.

By the morning, the shoulder long heap of hair was gone, Sherlock smiling, locks curling right behind his ears.

Just like that,another game began.

 

 

John was a quite normal man, he believed himself.

He always made an effort.

He was always good, tried to be, since forever.

His wounds were always wide open.

His sister`s agony.

Their parent`s hopelessness.

The future.

The war.

Death.

Life.

John was afraid to admit it, but…

He knew he was scared.

Scared and turned on. By life. By death. He was alive.

Truly alive.

The thrill of surviving.

Nothing could compare.

Nothing could, until John Watson met the Holmes brothers.

Two different dimensions…two worlds colliding…

The shades of blue, swallowed him, dragged him into the deeps of the sea.

Theatrical importance.

And Sherlock.

Sherlock made the transmission easier, because everything was about Sherlock.

 

 

When the weather was cold, the tip of Sherlock`s nose turned bright red.

The young genius was oblivious to this fact.

Mycroft knew.

When the weather was hot, asphalt steaming.

Sherlock was too busy wining to realize his brother's reaction on the white fabric of his shirt, hugging Sherlock as a second skin.

When the weather was rainy, the impossible child took a walk.

Throwing the drenched through cloths on the stairs.

When it snowed, Sherlock was asleep.

Always.

Twisted human "ball"; all legs and neck.

A pair of feet resting on top of an armchair.

When Sherlock was off drugs, he turned scary.

When Sherlock was on drugs, the boy was fading through the floor.

Food and cocaine, didn`t mix well, apparently...

Food and work didn`t either.

Work and drugs, did.

Twice a month Sherlock crashed and ate and slept.

Cases cleared out, the world saved.

Mycroft did a study of Sherlock sleeping habits,in college.

Cat naps.

The boy actually falling over unconscious…

 

 

John wasn`t the problem…

The problem was "John".

Somehow Mycroft felt as a parent.

A petrified parent; letting John move in with Sherlock.

John wasn´t ready…How could he be?

Mycroft was worried.

Still.

Letting Sherlock move out was another question.

Sherlock belonged to him.

He marked him.

Sometimes, when the sounds, turned into a blur…

Mycroft felt as a snake, ready to creep out of his suit from jealousy, the feeling dripping off his essence.

John was an intruder.

Stranger.

Lost, little warrior.

Still.

The man was clueless.

And Sherlock always took whatever he wanted.

"John" was the problem, a little perfect toy living inside sociopathic brain.

John was not.

Sherlock couldn`t stand it, within a week.

Returning, early in the morning, silent and guilty, slipping into Mycroft`s bed.

In between cases or not… Mycroft was glad.

 

 

Clenching his teeth, Mycroft thought that shagging the daylight out of Sherlock would be easier.

And faster.

The woman was agonizing.

In fact, shagging the daylight out of Sherlock was a wonderful idea.

The boy certainly deserved it.

The whole arrangement wasn`t really unexpected…

Sudden, yes.

Social services giving a fuck about surveillance and dogs and common sense, barging into their house in the middle of the day…

Claiming their rights on Sherlock, his, Sherlock.

Mycroft`s temper rising.

The lady was furious, swinging something through the room, her hair reeking vanilla.

The child needed company and friends, she claimed.

Contemporality. Morals. Discipline.

Sweet words.

Old hag.

Sherlock way out of her reach; sitting on top of the stairs, hugging his knees.

Watching Mycroft, a reflection, the room puzzled together, optical invisibility, Mycroft`s twenty first birthday present.

Mycroft smiled, sensing something warm bubbling inside of him.

Did he really expect to be abandoned?

At any given time?

The women, silenced, a bird blinking in surprise, Mycroft`s hand slapping her cheek.

Mycroft was not a violent man.

Mycroft was a careful man.

His lips stretching, the woman shocked, stumbling on a chair.

Mycroft wasn`t a very dangerous man or a partically scary one; he was still in learning.

Lilting one of Sherlock`s cigarette, one`s he carried around but never smoked himself, the man relaxed.

Calling out for Sherlock, his voice cold and demanding.

The woman scared now.

Sherlock confused.

The boy coming down, dressed in jeans and shirt, bare feet, Mycroft`s lazy cloths.

Mycroft pulling Sherlock into his arms, the cigarette shared.

His hands resting on slender waist, over sized shirt slipping off one of the bony shoulders.

The woman ignored and in awe.

Mycroft smiled, his teeth sinking into the pale skin, Sherlock moaning silently.

The woman jumping up in horror, running away, her purse pressed to her chest, deep blush on her cheeks.

Brothers sharing a loving smile.

 

 

Sherlock couldn`t handle some things well.

Memories of their mother, was one of those things.

She was the woman of their life, their princess and their queen.

She was dead now.

People constantly reminding them, about their "big tragedy", pitying them, the looks, the temper of their voice, blank uncaring expression, watery eyes.

The funeral.

Sherlock hated it, Mycroft grew angry.

Their mother was for them to treasure.

The woman.

Their obsession.

Dead.

But alive.

Sherlock, avoiding his own reflection for years.

 

 

Watching the door close, Mycroft was brilliant at finding excuses.

And it`s not like Sherlock cared.

He never cared.

A new pile of papers on Mycroft`s desk by the morning were probably not worth it, nothing but another key opening a tiny door.

But Mycroft was not made out of stone.

On a bad day, he believed he was in love with his brother.

The truth was, he wasn`t.

Or maybe he was.

Sherlock knew all the answers, and the little prick never cared enough to say them out loud.

Nor did he care for talking, walking around the house; silent for weeks.

On a really bad day Mycroft missed his brother`s voice enough to bring him, his drugs by himself.

The little squirm of delight and pleasure, Sherlock`s eyelids heavy.

Pleasure they sometimes shared.

If they were in love, Mycroft was the one who was supposed to do stuff.

He had experience and size and age.

But Sherlock just laughed at him, every time Mycroft tried, silent and smiling little brother.

Pale skin covered with marks made by the hands of other men.

The deep blue filled with sadness, Mycroft never understood.

 

 

Day 17.

"Why would I need you…" Sherlock hummed finally closing his eyes .

"No reason at all".

John closed the door, words still ringing in his ears.

"Why would you need me…" he whispered back, leaning his suddenly warm head to the surface of the door.

Day 19.

And then the silence came.

John could feel the pressure building up, words burning him from inside.

How he wished for a quiet life, how he begged for silence laying his face down in the sand, metallic taste on his skin from a young man, still a child that was blown up in sticky peaces right beside him.

Now, silence was his enemy, Sherlock watching him a second longer, bright living second.

Watching him.

In silence.

The man turning around, swapping Mycroft`s sheets, one naked pale shoulder sticking out.

Day 23.

Frustration was almost abusive, John`s body reacting, pushing the taller man into the wall.

Making him gasp in surprise, questions fill his eyes.

The sight of milky white skin under his hand blooming up with a bruise was like a cold shower, John stepping back.

Sherlock confused.

"John?"

"We…I can't do this, Sherlock. I cannot let you do this to yourself"

"John!"Mycroft repeated.

Sherlock hurrying past them right into Mycroft`s bedroom.

Day 34.

Finally, Sherlock came down and ate.

Food.

His first full meal in over a month.

Irene Adler set free.

World saved.

 

Private school

Sherlock visited once.

It was enough for Moriarty.

One phone call

One madman

One umbrella poking a smug cheek

Mycroft catching their stalker in the dark

"I am his equal!" the child screamed

Young. Obsessive. Clean.

Clever.

But never surprising.

"Leave it" Sherlock called.

It.

Sounds of violin chasing Jim out, like fire

Sherlock giggling into thin air; boring week with aggressive flu turning into adventure.

 

 

Molly loved her father.

Admired him

Adored every word he said.

Treasured every memory of his touch

Even the last one

With ropes and metal

When she stopped being his child

And turned into a piece of meat

Female piece of meat

With a leaver inside

Healthy leaver, size 4

Meant for another child

Rich child

Sherlock saved her

Sherlock moved her

Sherlock was silent

He was there.

He gave her books to read and papers to write.

He was there when she cried

Cried as her father's neck broke

A man who looked right at her

A disappointed man

Because Molly was found, safe, alive…

 

 

Mycroft wasn`t proud of his parenting

He had excuses

Hitting Sherlock wasn`t easy

He was an easily bruised kid

Stubborn, too

Angsty.

And completely calm in the morning

They never argued, slammed doors and cried.

They had nothing to say

Their conscious growing numb

Growing less human

Less normal

Mycroft was killing people.

With a pen

Gun

Hands

Slowly

Knowingly

With justice and without

Sherlock was catching those who got away.

Screen light

Hunting

Just a child

His little brother

Hitting Sherlock was unpleasant

Their hands stained with blood.

Blue eyes growing grey and empty

Pity. Shame. Aggression.

Broken ribs and noses, scars.

Iron in their kisses.

Mycroft wasn`t proud.

But it was worth it.

 

 

It was Mycroft`s 30th birthday

He was turning old

His empire perfect

That spring his wife left him

Pretty thing

She never grew used to his life

Or knew half of it

"Minor position in government" wasn`t working

Wives wanted details

He owned two houses now

Separate bedrooms

And a three year old leaving with his mother

Mycroft was a bad father.

Neglectful

He was a bad brother, too.

Sherlock ignored this crisis.

Sherlock stole him.

His favorite suit stripped off him, somewhere in Middle East.

Plane

Sand

Spices

One credit card

Trap.

They met their father.

He was married with an Indonesian woman, now.

Sherlock knew.

Kept secrets

Saved their child

Olivia

Healthy; strong; pretty

Their baby sister

Safe in jungle

Raised as a princess

Mycroft was frustrated

Happy

Back in China, Sherlock hired a stripper

Long legged creature

Hiding in lace and silk

High class

Male

They watched

Closing the door after performance.

No questions asked

Reusing silky gown left behind.

Bite marks on his shoulder.

 

 

Mycroft never asked about the journals.

Sherlock wrote in journals

Sending them

Now Mycroft knew

Olivia spoke Chinese

French

Perfect English

And a language created by Sherlock.

Their language

Shared with Mycroft

Sherlock was educating her, since birth

Raising her

Mycroft couldn`t be trusted

Not until their enemies knew their places.

Olivia was not to be another victim of the underworld.

Her arrival to London lacking drama.

School uniform suited her.

Chocolate eyes and porcelain skin

She accepted her future as their heir.

Spending every other season with her brothers

She liked Molly

And polar bears

And sneaking in into Mycroft's office for the ice cream

She was a fast learner.

A Holmes to the core

 

 

The question was asked once

If they were lovers

Sherlock and Mycroft walking through the office

Important little man

Gay himself

Were they lovers?

Lovers hired rooms and took farewells

Had awkward phone calls and secrets

Lovers had sex

Lovers were confident

Lovers never sat together through wedding receptions

Sleepless nights

Funerals

Brothers could never be lovers.

"Yes" Sherlock answered

Mycroft's worries washed away

"We are not." Pale hand slipping into Mycroft's

Curious little man left behind.

 

 

It took John a week to realize something

Inbetween cases week

Realization came at 7 AM, in his kitchen

With a squeak

A sound doctor never produced before

And a butt naked man

With a size of

Shoulders

John only seen among bears.

The man was George.

Just George cooked them a meal of eggs

Talking of his mammas plum jam

Just George was a circus performer

And caring for his

Guests

Was not on Sherlock's to do list

At 8.00 Sherlock was up

Walking through the front door

Asking for his coffee

Two sugars

Black

Apparently just because nude friendly companions spend a night in your bed; it does not guarantee your presence there.

Just George gone, with the wind

John pouting about gallon of milk

Acrobat absorbed

 

 

Do people usually assume you are the murderer? John asked him, feeling clever.

They did.

Frequently.

He was.

Not that people stayed by his side long enough to care.

Or did they?

He wasn`t sure anymore.

Moriarty.

Lies.

Humans.

They were affected by him, charmed.

Hated him with such a rare passion.

They felt

Envy

Pity

Lust

It wasn`t a secret

At all

Nothing was.

It is and always was a question of perspective.

Questions they could ask.

Their needs

Mycroft would find him.

Needs

His brother

Lover

Bond so strong, it suffocated them.

Love or need?

Friendships.

Molly wasn`t a friend, she was an asset.

And so in love with him, it was annoying.

Love

John

Could John be trusted?

Maybe not.

Do people usually assume he was the murderer?

Why would he care?

Why did he?

Shades of dull pain and frustration.

Did he care?

John.

There would be stubborness

And rage

Finally, maybe, John would understand.

Needs

Sherlock was never a show for little doctor to enjoy.

It was his life.

So, he jumped.

Testing a theory.

 

 

At night, when his mind expanded

In the stillness of a vaccum

He heard the voice

Ghoustly laugher

Of a man who died foolishly

Believing angels took sides.

 

 

Irene was a sight of elegance and sophistication

Sipping her wine

Parfumed with sunshine

Her pant leg less then an inch from his own

Their attraction making them a good team

Partly on terms of a lifedept The woman had

Dark silky locks falling over her eyes

No unexpected surprises

Reasonable sum of resourses transfered over

Unussually girlish features hiding in relaxation

She promised to watch John

Touching the space between them

truth

trust

tremble

Sherlock wishing they have known eachother

before

Her world crumbled

His fell apart

 

 

The execution was not beautiful

In death

Nothing was

Angelic features of a murderer

Twisted in a frown

Pride and beauty

Tackiness

Everything at once

Her growing bellies

Gifts from men

Three tiny little graves

Her wrists looked stunning

Just like when

He learned she`s still alive

Forgotten sister

Once loved aunt

Eli Holmes- von Robrent

 

 

In hit him weeks before the fall

In ways,only his fault

Lack of ambition

Intrest

Crystalic real world

Years it took him

Come to terms

Different at last

Seen as rude

Mind palaces

How people dreaded facts

How Mycroft loved ideas

Idolising him

Twisted sub-reality

Feed by simple sex

Love or sentiment

Games

Always games.

The total expertis

Why should you bother,boy

When you knew nothing else

Hysteria

And lack of breath

Her girlish little laugh

Hands cumbing through his hair

And piles of heroine

Grow up

Take offerings

Like God we made you be

Ignore your feelings

Work

Sleep

Eat

Be what we want to see

We make you who you are,dear boy

No space for errors there

Facts on facts

Truths in disguise

Realisations late

Her lacy curvy thighs

And vicious

Tricks

Hiding at the stairs

The damn thing, was, just plain old love

Standard precisions failed

The tragedy making him laugh

Odd

Horror

People leaning back

Smiles in fact, something he did rather well

Everyone

Was using him

Circle of their trust

Simple life and arrogance

Loved by the grotesque

Worth of life

Humanity

Shame for who he is

Anger and prosperity

Everyone the same

Human error

Final proff

Double meanings

Clowns

Who told them there was a

need

To try

And

Break his heart?

 

 

He woke up calm

alone

in a sunwarmed bed

creamy cotton

gold and stone

luxery expected from Irene

He had no wish to return

Or for that matter move

Birds singing songs

How different lithosphare is

Two years to go

Calmness

Frustration

Being dead

Boiling hot showers

Motivating to explore

Estate was huge

Overlooking blue skies

Time moving up and down up and down

Four peach trees

Banana plant

Bagginess of a tshirt and a pair of female jeans

Defying the man

He would miss violin

Hacking into the house

Paranoid one

One who was not a clown

Leaving her single kiss

Dressed in red silk

Sentiment there, nothing else.

Money on the grand

Like a housewife he was

What a pair of big feet he had, yes, indeed.

Half a building books

Coffe

Naps in the shade

Weeks of time ticking away

Melody of her heels

Somewhere, a man, he needs to kill so very bad

Boxes with pussles, layed mozaic

Sherlock Holmes practicing chinese

She would return

Reporting calm

Sitting far from him

Avoiding to frown

Their dinners slow

Local cuisine

Mostly frowns

Sherlock writing down

Words he could use

Her strange laugh

arts of science, she meant

Clever girl

But artist, he was not

It took seven months

And four trips to the mainland

For the pair to have all at their hand

Mind palace orgonised

Architecture renewed

Man of legends already returned

Mycroft catching their sence

Like a good dog he is

Plain tickets to London booked that afternoon.

Sherlock Holmes leaning his head on a tree,

watching John Watson leave

The woman,

a friend

following him

The hunt

of their lives

Begining there

Right questions to ask

His tombstone plain

Sherlock left to China the same day

 

 

China

The tall beast

Excavating gathering of workaholics

Mythological goddess of life

Stubbornness of will

Country of sideprojects great Sherlock Holmes never cared to share

Now grown into industries

Ninety five trainees

Offering their greetings

Wearing crispy shoes

Meeting one man in a sweatshirt

Girl with green eyes

Just somebody he picked up

Gasping in exitment, pressing Sherlocks unintrested limb to ber bossom

Chatting like a fool

Fool indeed

The kind Shelto would react to

Heartly laughter of a friend

Office people shattering away like cagles

Mass well feed

With puddings and pies

Lifting the poor girl

In a bear hug

Her volpurious curves public

To the delights

Of the scandalious twin

Sherlocks assistant frowning

She always prefered pants

And so did Shelly, in more ways

then one

Poking randomly at the scrapbook

Bag with tailored suit lifted into the car.

Their driver previously a poison killer

Nice man

Resourseful

And great cook indeed

One and only exception of a rule not to eat during cases.

His crush on the sharp woman nicknames Jarvis

Very funny to observe

Like a dinner theater

Flashy red ears changing colors

Snappy comments

Tail of a dragon peaking out

Nothing changed in four years.

And it would not

Hyanas

Belonging in the politics

Too boring to care

When he only ever needed to ask

This time

Program selecting

Those

Who could fit

In his Mind Palace

Connected

To the internet

Helios

Activated weeks ago

Championships of online gaming

A resourse

Ignored by too many

 

 

Chain of people in and out

Presentations

Sweating palms¨

Three hackers, designer, five high scholars' there

A hospital nurse; six from the cubic fair

Autistic child accepted at sight

Helios born with a note of despair

Seventeen winners

Thirty four eyes

Jim Moriarty found in early march

 

 

Thing is

When you are already dead

Twice

And any physical harm

Would release the kraken

of pissed off

Mycroft Holmes

You can pretty much valse

Anywhere

Anytime

It is not like people ever learn

Or check

If that freelancer

Was not a nine years old boy

Which is embaressing

In the world of banking

Unlimited project funding

Easy to get

Suggesting the idea

A humorous approach

Elegant solution

For every problem

With professional honeytrap at your side

Why would you suggest otherwise?

It is after all

Not that fun to watch, clever men

jump in fear

Irene would disagree.

But

Fear

Feed disorder

Fear

Lack of which

Making one twitch

Take risks

Risks too high

Too obvious

For the eye

Jim Moriarty`s report

Interrupted

On Off

Unrecorded boat

Floating about

Striped

black and white

in the twilight

"Hello, Brother"

Computers sang out

Skype windows

Black

Catching

the duck

wiggling

its way

right into

a frame

Brittish Empire

striped

of

It`s pride

 

 

John imagined it would be different

It was not

The silence was unbearable

It was not about Sherlocks death

Death or not

The silence was there

Oldest Holmes

Reacting so strangely

John decided to accept the invitation

Surprising himself

taking the buss.

He never needed to walk far

in the depth of the house

more like a mansion

echo

timeless

artless

without reflections

painted white glass

brickwalls

everything

cleaned

sealed off in space

Diagonals

Mycrofts assistants

placed

stategically

documents signed

something edgy

something bad

in the silence

far away

The identical lucid blue

dead

or

alive

high

and

through

Dreams they shared

of fragile wrists

violin sounds

even melodies

horrible posture

and awcward laughs

truth never told

and punishments

what to do

when you screwed up

inpatience

a

crime

above

the delay

woman they knew

and knew nothing about

waiting

her information shared

he would remain dead

until time is right

facing his crimes

when they are no more

the child would know nothing

or Mayhem will start

people will question

their theories false

they would accept it

not asking why

thinking of reasons

and questions to ask

one who they though

belong to them

alive

and breathing

somewhere afar

One who have chosen

to fall

and face truth

important to many

not very few.

Answers they need

In plain sight

as always

obvious for observation.

Facing the shock

can be rather hard

Living with regrets is not.

Theories,sentements and facts

There is a neverland of love.

Logic or habit, what would you choose?

Its very hard to think, is it not?

Deceptions are easy.

But what is their point?

Eliminate all factors

What remain is yours.

 

 

At the ending of that day

Smiles so sharp

They could be blades

In the middle of his plane

Watching people disappear

Family resemblence clear

Learning new vacubulare

Realising in dispare

Some men she could have

This, being one of them

Out of his suits

Surprising youth

Some would say cute

Her wrists bruised

That deep, sharp blue

Pale complexion

Intellegence and wealth

Not just one genious,

but at least two.

John left behind

witnessing crime

slow child

his exitment raw

some steps a step just too far

Knocked down

Left drugged

Creating less troubles

half dead

Irene had no idea

How one does

Such things

apologiese

of this kind

out of her expertise

dreams and hopes

she handled well

raw emotions

not at all

all as well

her crush

fading away

Friendship born

when sentiment is crime

how one loves such a man

she did not know

Clocks ticking on

Driving her mad

Eyes so blue

hard to look into

What could she do?

Anger or pain

all the same

pretending to be

He knew everything, then

she was not told

all the

whys and when

and how

where

in her own mind

her heart crushed

by a loved one

and a someone else

Love

or

Sentiment

a mindfuck there

Mycroft Holmes laughing until tears fell

What happens then

Was

waited

sex or not

she could not tell

offer declined

typical

brothers alike

always the same

a gentle smile reminding there

her heart skipping beat

what a shame

plane landing smooth

car awaiting them

company orders

security far

She was tired and sleepy, expecting a meal

admittedly bratty

being there

.

.

.

With too much coffein

and a headarch fit within

just to stay out the way

nameless one

a flushing flame

Sherlock Holmes

there

under his brothers stare

.

.

.

She expected a slap

from someone

at last

What happened when

was not a pretend

understanding

With a frown of her own she just had to turn around

A friend

Handled around

Brused within

Blood already there

Held so tight

Not a brother

Tired whisper of a lover

Little sounds

Gasps and kisses

Roaring storm of many hearts

A consequence

Moving far away from scene

Her imagination free

Little giggle,laughing mad

Truth too simple, to be fair.

 

 

Mycroft felt it

Sensed it

The snap

The fall

Rationality giving up

The girl, with sad eyes, leaving

His brother breathing

Breathing

Alive

How long was it since they talked?

Did they ever?

"You don't have friends" he finally hissed

Wishing broken homes and broken people healed.

"You don't have friends" he whispered, suddenly realizing the lack of protests.

Lack of response

"You don't have friends, Sherlock."

He shook him

Again

And again

Silence

"Sherlock"

Finally his brother looked up, irises wide, watching.

"Sherlock"

"Neither do you" darkness answered, vivid and awake. "You found me"

"Wasn`t hard"

"Irene knows nothing. You will keep it so."

"You don`t have friends, Sherlock"

"Not my fault" the crack was there, right there."All of you.";"No, don't touch me. Don't look at me."

"Sherlock!"

"I am not in love with you" the younger man laughed darkly, searching for a smoke; finding one where they always were, in his brother's pockets. "Not with you…or her, or anyone."

"It is what all of you want, right." laughter gone now "Happy bloody endings!"

"You don't do happy endings Sherlock." Mycroft signed, fishing out a lighter."People are not maps you memorize."

Cloud of smoke between them

"What did you expect?" Sherlock breathed out, tired.

"Quite honestly, I expected tea."

"Tea?"

"It was a long flight"

"I am in bloody China"

"Known for tea"

"You are impossible, Mike"

"Shelly; dearest; were you expecting sex?"

"You jumped me"

"You jumped a building"

"Want one?" Sherlock breathed out, nervous.

Mycroft smiled."Share yours?"

Their dialogue frighteningly familiar

"We did this before" Sherlock concluded; Mycroft sitting both of them down in a chair. View from sixty two floors as good as could be imagined. "We did this a lot" Sherlock continued.

"And then I got married, I believe"

"Ah, I never forgiven you; have I?"

"Not really"

"She got pregnant. You have a son."

"You spend the last decade brooding over whom gave birth to my child? You should have a few, yourself."

"I am 27."

"And you spend half your life between other people's legs."

"Hmf"

"What do we do now?"

"You wanted tea"

"About future; with a pet doctor, skirt with paranoia and wild madman on the run"

"I am not sleeping with Moriarty" Sherlock laughed, putting his feet up on the table."He would like that too much"

"Or slice you open..."

"Hey."

"I love you, you know that, right?" Mycroft signed into the pale neck.

"I love you too" Sherlock frowned.

"But you love John more."

"I never thought about it, that way"; "Have you spend time brooding over whom I love ?"

"Incredibly so"

"Had no idea"

"Preoccupied in the gardens of your mistress I assume."

"My gardens; I grow grapes for wine."

"You hate wine"

"I do" Sherlock bubbled with laughter "Are we going home now?"

"Do we have a home?" sarcastic note flat.

"We have a pet doctor, one madman and Irene reminds me of mother."

"I am not sleeping with our mother" Mycroft chocked.

"Hahaha" pale cheeks pink from giggling " ...Haaha. She would like that"

"Yes Sherlock"


End file.
